Anatomy of breaking down
by Isolith
Summary: Fear is a powerful motivator. Fragments of a shared breakdown, Andy/Sharon.
1. one

_**Anatomy of Breaking Down**_

_Summary_: Fear is a powerful motivator. Fragments of a shared breakdown, Andy/Sharon.

_A/N: A bit dark and a bit smutty, and well you know. =)_

**/one/**

It was a matter of nature; a universal imperative that implied a straight causative line of events being set in motion. Causality was a strange concept to grasp when everything was tipped upside down yet it was inherent in the middle of even nightmares.

Shock came in many guises, least of all when terror beckoned it forth from the depths. Advancement equals every opportune moment – why it was the advancement of a dark prowling nightmare that unfolded before her eyes was lost on her.

Sharon felt left out in a dark space, nothing to do, nothing to see. Floating, falling; it did not matter. It felt like a dangerous void, a deep cave opening up in her mind. A moment drawn out till it was stretched past its own fabric, reality rendered incomprehensible. Terror was not an integrated part of her – it was barely an entity she had made an acquaintance with. It was a strange foreign being in the periphery of her life, shimmering and inconsistent, not a fully visible creature to her.

It was vivid to her now.

Darkness poured out of her, pores wide open for particles to drift through; she hesitated to guess what floated back in through the cracks. Terror had emblazoned itself into her heart, assimilation following through to the rest of her body.

The point upon which she existed, the point that held her together for the time being, was the interaction of lips. His mouth on hers, her hand around his neck bringing him closer even if it did not seem possible. Large body against her own, lanky and solid against her, pressing her into a cold wall – keeping her occupied.

His bottom lip in between her own lips with an insistent tug, molding, moving – imbued by the impatient need to keep herself anchored to something. She bit down gently on it, pressed her lips further into his and tried to keep him aligned with her.

He was in the middle of withdrawing – hands on her shoulders, distance in touch, abrupt in the sudden air between her body and his.

"Sharon," he started but she interrupted him with another kiss, leaning up and catching his mouth in a flurry, fully intent on shutting him up. She had no need for words, no need to decipher and interpret.

"Hey, slow down," he said in between another kiss, voice uncharacteristically soft.

Ignoring him she snaked her hands in under his leather jacket - under the white shirt. The intake of breath when her palms met his bare abdomen, it slithered through her skin and she nibbled along his jaw, behind his ear with her lips – seeking further contact.

A hand landed on her own hip, crept up – large, flat palm that was warm against her own bare skin when it came into contact with her stomach under her blouse. His other hand followed the same pattern on her other hip.

She sighed.

She wanted to tell him exactly what she wanted, exactly what she needed but she had a vague concern that he would not understand. She kept quiet, aggressively sealed her lips to his again.

It was still vivid in her memory though – an intense, irrevocable image. The blunt vision of the gun barrel, the cross-eyed dizziness when she had narrowed her eyes and the whole gun had come into focus, the angry prickly eyes behind the weapon, intent on her – the pressure of the cold metal against her forehead, moving further into her skin, hard against her skull. The force of terror just as impressionable as the cold object pressed into her skin.

Her hands trembled at the memory but she buried them into the hard muscles of her lieutenant's bare back, pressing further into his flesh, the deep groan that travelled from his throat to the cavern of her own mouth relaxing in its own way.

Andy Flynn, the stocky presence of something solid pressed against her, the large figure who enveloped her in a glow that threatened to overwhelm her. It was an intense wish, fervent and ferrous within her. She needed him to merely swallow her whole – overwhelm her in sensation, touch and nothing else. Till she became numb and completely devoid of distress, completely devoid of anything.

Oblivion was at this point in time a most sought after treasure.

Breaking their kiss, his hands once again kept her a little away from himself, large hands on her hipbones, a calming pressure. Again, it was another softness to him that threw her off course.

It was the one thing she had thought she could count on with him, and he neglected to act according to nature. A mutation when it came to causality; it was a breathtaking thought. Why was he not acting like he was supposed to? What had happened to the surety of action, reaction? The progress in which one event set into motion the blossoming of another event?

Hesitation was not part of the concept; it was not a part of what she had started. He was behaving unlike himself, really.

"Hey – Will you listen to me? You're trembling like a leaf, you feel feverish to touch," he paused, a tender finger on her chin, "Goddamn, listen, you're a mess," he continued, his voice low and calm, vibrating with such concern it became an estranged tone to her, "Will you look at me?"

Resolutely she had been avoiding his gaze, staring into the sharp contours of his jaw, contemplating whether he had shaved recently, the small noticeable stubble on his chin catching her attention. Contemplating why this was wrong – why concern felt misplaced. Wondering about the contents of her refrigerator and whether she would need to pick up groceries before she headed home.

"Sharon?", then "Capt'n?"

She looked up but quickly averted her eyes again, coming to rest on the white concrete wall opposite her. White tiles, detached and sterile, covering up the small room all around. The tiles looked cold – they felt cold against her back. They reminded her of winter. Winter, cold and still yet tumultuous and wild.

"Shit," she heard him muttering to himself.

She wondered why he wanted to talk. Why now of all times did he have to second guess, why did he stop and contemplate his actions? She needed him brash and emotional not considerate and thoughtful.

There was a reason she clung to him, a reason she had sunk her fingers into his arm when he had untangled her from the rigid position she had been in, had taken her away from the scene, had taken her away from the squadroom later on.

Words did not suit her in this moment, thoughts were too grim to hang unto and it was a matter of simply existing. She buried her head into his chest, snuck against him, arms going around his middle in a tight grip.

**/**

Andy had not been prepared for this nightmare.

He was not equipped to handling a traumatized Sharon Raydor. The concept in itself was esoteric and a puzzling thing to comprehend. It was not the notion of vulnerability; it was not the essence of being fragile that was a strange concept. He had come to terms with her in the many guises that life drew forth; he had been a spectator to many facets of her, even more on display the moment she transferred into his division.

Once upon a time he had been under the delusion that she was detached, cold and far away for mere mortals to understand. An enigma that was not meant to be unraveled. Mysteries had the odd quality of being unobservable; the moment you revealed a tangent to a mystery it evaporated and left nothing behind but unease.

He had been unwavering in his opinion about her till suddenly everything seemed to happen at once; it happened too abruptly and in such a swift awakening that he had trouble narrowing down the exact point upon which this obscure deity had descended from the high skies and landed surely in his own world.

It did not matter; illusions were but tools to accomplish agendas. She could be vulnerable; he had come to terms with this.

But dark panic, dark shock; terrorized, vacant eyes – clingy hands. It was not a quantity of being vulnerable. It was a more profound aspect of something deeper. Something that resonated within him, drew small threads into his skin, anchored under the outer layer of his skin, deep into where the more complicated cells of his being resided. She had firmly attached herself to him; even if it was not a conscious deed, even if it was not reasonable or sought after.

She was not herself. It was a strange creature in his arms, shivering and buried into his chest. Avoiding eye contact, gripping around the flesh of his sides to better hold onto him. A little creature, animate and pumped with adrenaline – ready to fight or flee, he gathered. An arcane defense mode that translated into latching unto him, lips full and soft against his own, yet rough in their impatient need to devour and forget.

Sighing he tightened his embrace.

The problem lay in another area; he was traumatized himself.

There was no point in denying this; it was vivid clear in his mind, distinct in the tension that had situated itself comfortably into his skin. It was a nightmare come to life, infused by breath that should not be possible. He was well-familiar with the concept of monsters hiding out in plain sight, in daylight – he was well-familiar with the concept of monsters prowling, slithering in the dark, crouching and otherwise waiting.

It was the concept of her being in the middle of this darkness that was novel; it was herein his panic had its origin.

It felt suffocating. The incident had shoveled coal down his throat, filled his body till it was on the point of nausea, set the soot-covered black things on fire. Burning from the inside out – a vile liquid rapidly taking over his body, slick and foreign. Love was not supposed to be doused in darkness till it felt like drowning.

It was a curious thing; coping strategies were in some way deep rooted in him, buried in the cells that made him volatile and unpredictable. Anger and aggression were creatures that came to the surface then, he welcomed them with urgency.

The dangers of stray bullets or angry suspects were one thing but direct, sinister harm was an entirely different entity. Danger was different when it was up close and in your face. Reality was fragments of moments that haphazardly followed each other when violence came too close. Threatening gun, angry eyes and unstable environment; it had been hell.

That glistening weapon being waved around, being forced into the side of her face – shoved into the side of her cheek, pushed into her temple, splitting one eyebrow. Angry taunting words from an unpredictable, malevolent narcissist and the incident had been without insight to the future. It was one of those times where life could flounder in any direction, one of those times where it all hinged on but a split of a second. It had been intermittent silence within him interrupted by the loud sound of his own heart, fast and irregular – his eyes had been zeroed in on the large hand around her throat, the heavy body above her and that gun forcing its way into her face.

He had watched the splattering of blood from afar and yet he had been too close to not perceive every little nuance to the opaque, red shower. How small droplets had landed on impact with one side of her face, down her chest in a little gruesome cesspool of malignancy. He had watched her eyes, cold and disconnected, a murky green that reminded him more of grey than any other color. She had not moved, a lone statue – carved in marble as a flurry of motion had suddenly come to life around her. Sanchez moving closer, Tao and Provenza further back.

White and red; on the floor, on her – within her. It had been mesmerizing in its nausea-inducing capacity, frozen him in his spot, unable to move.

A white statue mid center in the room, on the ground with the dead body next to her – the pooling blood that crept around her. The deep, dark red liquid that stained the side of her face in a little show of causality, in stark contrast to the pallor of her skin, the dark red hair that curled and seemed to envelope the blood, different hues to contemplate.

The impression the gun had left against her temple, the imprint visible still – flesh hit with force so it left behind an indentation. A mark of terror, a bruise of what could have been. It was a what-if that left him unhindered by restraints and pushed him far ahead of any considerations he would otherwise adhere to.

She had been calm, quiet – an unadulterated and blunt object in the middle of a pool of death.

Where she had appeared composed he had been soaked through with panic, a disposition that swept through him with no remorse, no hesitation. His own knees had felt weak; his mouth had felt like cotton and the inside of his throat had felt raw, grazed and tender, hands that shook all of a sudden. The image had been so vivid even if she stood in front of him now, alive and well. It had been right in front of his eyes, forming in the neural network of his brain, the image of her head splattered, brain matter in among a rain of blood.

He had already been down in the deep; the inevitable fall that succumbed to nothing but darkness. An abyss that reeked and felt rank, welcoming him with open arms and claws that dug into skin – sharp teeth that sunk into him and kept him under for good.

Time had moved agonizingly slow in the same breath that he perceived to be too fast. A flurry of motion, his own limbs moving without his consent suddenly, without his knowledge.

Dread and fear too visible on the tips of his fingers, on the edge of his mouth; it had all happened in such a slow fashion it had felt like being disconnected. Yet, suddenly here they were. Back at headquarters, in an obscure part of the building where they rarely set foot, white stark walls of an unused restroom. The smudges on her cheek had been dark red and slightly crusted, visible to him still even if the blood had been well washed off.

Different agendas, different intentions and yet it left them in the same place. He had needed to wash the blood away from her face before it became a permanent vision in his retinas. She had – apparently – needed to wash away the invisible blood inside her mind with human contact. They had both needed to be far away from the seeking eyes of others.

Her vacant eyes had followed him, arms leaden when he had directed her down stairs and through narrow hallways. The look had been familiar to him; he knew it was a matter of getting her away from the many people that flurried about their squadroom. Those colorful red streaks on her white skin had seemed like chinks in her armor, had called to him with an ache to make them disappear. It was perhaps more his perception of her that had chinks in it; she was compact even now.

It had been a matter of removing himself from the crowd, before his other hand impacted with a wall as well. His right hand sore, knuckles raw and bruised from exerted frustration, concrete hard against a fist when the two connected. He had an underlying thought that bones were if not broken then decidedly bruised.

Anger always came forth when he had no control over events, always when he least expected it. Anger followed hand in hand with fear. That was a given, a prerequisite.

He tightened his grip around her, forced her closer and lowered his head.

"Listen," he began in a soft voice, "I'm not about to fuck you here, now – okay? You're not yourself. I know, okay, I know how you feel, what's going on inside of you – but this won't solve anything. I'm here – I'm right here," he paused, then, "Will you say something?"

Her fingers dug painfully into his skin, nails sharp into the flesh just under his ribcage. Just slightly more pressure and surely she would break through skin. He did not mind. Pain had another implication, differing on what lay behind its intent. Sometimes it was a welcomed entity.

Her eyes seemed dark with derision when she looked up, when she kept her eyes firmly on his.


	2. two

**/two/**

"What use are you then?" her voice was hard but she barely noticed it. She kept her gaze on his brown eyes; discerned the hue of barely veiled hurt, the look of distress in among pain. It did not connect – she felt dissociated from it.

She let go of his oblique's, the flesh under her hands warm, fingers travelling around his hips and in front, down the muscles of his stomach, the tension she felt when she came to the edge, the belt of his jeans cold in comparison with skin. She lingered there, his muscles quivering beneath her touch, a little tremble of anticipation even in light of his hesitation, even in light of his now narrowed eyes.

"I'm not in the middle of breaking down. I'm conscious and fully aware of my actions," she told him, trying to keep her tone reassured, trying to keep her hands steady. It was about need now more than anything else; rationality had left her completely when the warm splatter of blood had hit her skin. A spray of blood that had impacted with her skin with a suddenness she had not been prepared for. She was not familiar with blood in this phase. It had surprised her. It had been decidedly warmer than she had imagined at first impact, then within a breath it had turned slick and cold, sticky and nauseous.

Her fingers had of their own accord run along her cheek, coming away in a red color. The smell had permeated the air around her. It still lingered, aching bitter in its sweetness, tart in its metallic tang. She wondered how long it would reside in her nostrils even when she had washed it away.

"How can you be aware of anything when you are in fight-or-flee mode? You are walking around like a robot, on automate," he countered, brusque glare displayed for her, "Shit, you were a second away from being shot. You had a gun forced into your face, goddamn it."

Why was he so defiant, so resistant? She had been certain he would instantly yield and simply flow away in the moment. Still, he let her touch him. Still, he had kissed back just as desperately.

"I'm fine," she tried to tell it with a smile but she could not work her lips around it, "I'm perfectly fine."

"Perfectly fine, my ass. Bullshit and you know it! You're in denial. I know denial when I see it, okay – you're in shock."

"Do I look that weak? I'm not fragile," she paused, "I'm okay."

"Goddamn, it's not about being weak."

He sounded exasperated.

"Then what is it about?"

"This is bad idea. Plain and simple."

"Bad idea," she repeated.

"I mean," he sighed, "This is reckless and stupid. It's based on a faulty foundation. This is not you."

"You don't know me that well."

"Maybe not," she could tell he did not agree, his voice still hard, "But I know this is not how it's supposed to be."

It suddenly made sense to her. She smiled, "You envisioned this in a different setting, in another way? You want it to be gentle and in a bed, comfortable and calm?" It was not meant to sound condescending but somehow it must have come across as such for his eyes narrowed and turned dark, almost black in their depths.

She ran her fingers gently up and down his lower stomach, trying to soothe her words.

It was amazing what you could decipher about him from his eyes if you made an effort. Her words were not far from the truth, she knew. It was what she had envisioned herself, under normal circumstances. She understood, however, that leaving room for alterations in your imaginations were better than altogether denial and strict adherence.

His eyes narrowed further when she deepened her smile, she understood him – there was nothing warm in her smile.

"I envisioned it alright," he acknowledged in a rigid tone, "I just did not think you would be this, this…" he paused, lost for a word.

She saw her window of opportunity.

"I want you," she whispered, turning her voice down a notch, standing on tip toe so she could let her breath hit his lips, so she could bring her lips into contact with his and whisper; "I want you so much it hurts. I need you, it's simple. It has nothing to do with denial. It had nothing to do with bad decisions. Plain and simple, I want you in this moment, right now."

It struck him, impact hard and slipping underneath his skin. She could tell by the sudden look in his eyes, naked need unveiled. He was as unsettled by the whole ordeal as she was.

His thumb ran along her jaw, tender – eyes still dark as they took her in, examining her. She wondered what he saw, she wondered if she had to beg for him to do as she wanted. Ordinarily she got what she wanted, whether it be in moments of clarity or irrationality. Fear and terror never invoked her with incoherency yet she was never certain when it came to him.

It was a matter of pulling forth the small little pieces that made up his being, tugging him along till he acquiesced. She needed him forceful – needed that reassuring feeling of him completely washing over her. He had a tendency to be raw, brash and determined; he never backed down from a fight. He never wavered. She needed that firm, sturdy belief. It would transfer in every touch, in every breath shared.

There was no confusion in her mind in this moment; his skin kept her grounded, kept her in connection with something. Oh, she would regret it tomorrow with potency of that she had no doubt. That, however, was knowledge that did not weigh much into her considerations. This moment was not enveloped in the foresight of what tomorrow would bring. There was no room for thoughts in this, no room for rationality or reason.

She had a tendency to break and splinter aggressively when she finally let everything go; it was better to follow the flow of insanity then she found. It was better to follow the rhythm that kept her heartbeat up, kept her blood in a hurried flow, better to keep to that which beckoned forth life within her. Otherwise she would slump to the floor like a used doll, motionless and still – lifeless and utterly useless.

She unbuckled his belt, watched as he continued to look at her. There was no reproach in his eyes, no hesitation. It was something she knew about herself that he would not believe or understand; she always remained cohesive in her panic. Fear did not riddle her completely incoherent. He was transferring his own concerns onto her. The rich tint of darkness to his eyes, the soft way his hands continued to imply contact and pressure to her skin, the continuous embrace displayed his fear more than hers, displayed his pain more than hers.

"You want this?" he grumbled, voice hard and rough.

She nodded, fingers going under the band of his underwear.

His hands were quick, around her waist and pushing her further into the wall, his body in full contact, lips crashing into hers. She pushed under his underwear, grasped around his cock, the hard flesh feeling thick in her hand. He wanted it as much as she did; it surprised her even if she had known it. She ran a thumb along the head, reveled in the feel of his mouth more firmly on hers.

She whimpered when he hitched her skirt up, bunched it around her middle; whimpered when she felt the growl he bit into her neck with. She whimpered at the sure knowledge of what was undoubtedly about to happen.

He was finally unhinged; forceful and raw.

She stroked along his length, felt the ability to suddenly exhale air instill her. It had felt like asphyxiation since the warm spray of blood, since that man had pulled the gun at her and pushed it into her head. This was exactly the energy she needed. Where a motionless, still heart needed a jolt to come back to life, needed that extra kick of energy to once again start its uninterrupted beating, she needed a likewise jolt. Electricity was what sparked to life her lungs; lust sweeping through her in a throbbing fashion – sudden desire and something that hurt, jolted to life in her heart, through blood vessels, to limbs, to her lungs.

Her mind jolted to another avenue, no longer centered on that cold feeling of the gun pressed into her head. Oh, it was a wonderful reprieve, being able to linger in pain and fear that had nothing to do with death. No, the pain and fear of desire flooding her instead and leaving behind nothing but the impression of pressure that needed to be alleviated.

Fueled into life – jolted into action, into sensation.

She pushed his jeans down, dragged down his underwear as well, and pushed her own down till it pooled around one ankle. Her hand around him, going down his length – just the feel of him and it slipped underneath her skin in a tingle. It did not register that this was precariously novel for them; it merely was her hand around him, stroking and feeling him, his lips slanted across hers, his hands reassuringly warm on her thighs. Naked from the waist down, her silk blouse against his white shirt.

His hips grinded into hers, mouths inches apart as they let up for air.

She sought his lips again when he lifted her from the floor, a leg around his waist, one foot still on the ground.

"I thought I was about to lose you," he whispered into her ear, his voice soft and low, fragile and resonating with fear; one hand went down between her folds, rough in comparison to his voice. She opened her legs wider, tilted her head back and looked into his eyes. "I thought it was over, for sure. It so vivid still, that gun pressed into your face. I'm going to have nightmares about it."

His voice was genuine and somewhat small, a croak that tried to conceal upheaval within him. She nuzzled his lips before slipping into another kiss, this one slow.

"I thought he'd pulled the trigger when Sanchez shot him," she whispered back, "I only heard the shot, felt the blood. I thought it was my own." Her voice sounded odd to her own ears. "I just -," she stopped, not sure what to say. It felt too fresh to talk about.

She looked up and caught his eyes. Raw, intense brown eyes; seeking and forceful in their connected gaze. Finally he was on the same wavelength as her; finally he understood the rank, decaying feeling inside that she needed to get rid of.

Her other leg came around his middle as well, his hands under her, his body pressing her into the wall – keeping her surely and safely against the two compact structures; one of concrete, the other of hard muscle and bone.

"I'm sorry," he kissed into the side of her mouth; for what she was not sure. She did not care much for the tone of guilt but it was not something she could do anything about now.

She caressed the sides of his jaw, breathed without obstruction when he entered her, slow – the angle not completely right but wonderfully encompassing nevertheless. It did not matter. It was not about precision. It was not about the act in itself – it was about potentiating it to another level, one that did not hinge on anything but impression and sensation. It did not hinge on anything but escape.

**/**

Shit, she was tight around him, buried to the hilt when she repositioned her legs around him and he slid deeper. Warm thighs surrounding his middle, hands warm against his neck – her mouth hot against his. Eyes closed one moment and the next open and wide, hanging unto him with a look that struck him hard. Long lashes, dark – delicate eyebrows – the soft skin as he traced his breath along her neck; he could not concentrate.

It was a jumble of images, a messy tangle of emotions splattered not unlike the blood that had hit her a few hours earlier. It did not register in his mind, not really. Animated, simply neurotransmitters tumbling through his system, enforcing he slid into her, ensuring he pushed her hard into the tiles behind them, made him grovel into her hair, seeking lips not able to surrender to a long kiss but forced to breathe against each other instead.

They bumped into the wall repeatedly, the room silent but for heavy pants.

It was an awkward rhythm, not one that would stick in the long run. It was not meant to be like this but it was the best he could do. He was too occupied to put finesse into it, too estranged from himself to linger in this – to be considerate. It was the repetition of grim images that kept running through his mind, disorganized flashbacks that centered on her face and the blood. It pushed at him, prickled and however much he tried to force it down to a faint sidetrack, it kept on being vividly on display.

He could feel her breath against his neck, her fingers digging painfully into his back, her teeth nipping at his skin one moment complacently and the next roughly.

His muscles were already aching with strain, tense and trembling; he would tire out more quickly than normal. Adrenaline had a curious timing of leaving when you needed it the most; he was running on low fuel in this aspect. Still, exhaustion would be blissful. The goal was to completely exhaust her as well – she would be far more malleable when she was drained. He could drive her home and tuck her into bed; she would not disagree or put up much of a fight then. If only he had taken her directly home – forced her to go home right after they had given their statement to fid.

If only he did not feel nauseous in the midst of arousal.

If only he could put to rest the image of her dead, painted in her own blood and lifeless open eyes. If only he could force it away, bury it. It kept flashing through him, piercing and sharp and he settled on trying to banish it with further skin contact. He tried to settle on the knowledge that she was alive now, that she was safely in his arms, safe in his kiss.

It only felt dangerous, still. There was nothing safe in this breakdown, in what was playing out now. How could sex in any way diminish this nightmare? If anything, it would only highlight and intensify the feeling of pain inside of them. This, it threatened to swallow him whole, crush him till he was nothing but a numb shell. Yet, he could not deny wanting her, he could not deny that he wanted this as much as she did.

It would be a setback tomorrow; it would be another fissure in what was supposed to be unbreakable concrete between them. Professionalism was a long gone myth; it had left them with nothing but trouble and pain. Relocating small touches and secretive, encompassing smiles was an easy accomplishment. It did not even invoke a need to ignore it or pretend it had never happened. It had been so subtle, so weak it could have been chalked down to nothing but easy comradeship.

They had settled into an acquaintance of light flirting and restraint, on and off – a roller-coaster that had left him winded and disorientated in hindsight. But this, in this moment, would not be easily relocated. It would be deafening between them, consistently. Whatever transpired now between them would make too much of an impact, would be dense and heavy. It was already solidified in his mind.

It was already a howl within him – it would be vivid inside of him for too long to simply ignore. Sex like this was too precarious and intimate to simply pretend it did not exist. She had not thought this through, obviously. He had not thought this through either; otherwise he would have put up more resistance.

Their personalities had clashed with something tensile back when she had been strutting about in internal affairs; a certain look in her eyes and he remembered the tense coiling under his skin. It had been a power play back then; antagonism at its fullest and powered by a yearning to dominate, a need to exert some kind of control over the other. Beneath the more obvious layer, however, had been puzzlement. She had intrigued him on a certain level, even when he had detested her presence.

Somehow, it had been overtaken by something else over the years, potentiating when she had transferred to major crimes. It was suddenly a different incentive that came over him, a different yearning within him. Antagonism and resentment were quickly replaced by a need to protect her, an urge to envelope her into his life. It was a development he should have anticipated; really, it was no wonder he attached himself to her with far more energy than was healthy.

They had kept it professional and cordial the first year; then it was chaotically pushed aside for a celebratory kiss. It was not the first contact of skin between them but where small touches on the arm were easily managed, the brief touch of lips was outside the boundaries. Rules and conduct forgotten in a haze of needing to touch some part of her, a need to somehow transfer his own happiness onto her. Order got pushed aside whenever she decided she needed to caress his jaw, hold onto his arm or otherwise situate herself into his life.

Somewhere along the line it had transformed into something that was neither about control nor power. In among professionalism and friendly approaches came an intimate touch here and there; it sneaked up on the both of them.

Small little incidents no one knew about; and they had kept them hidden. It was not sex, there was no fucking – why, a little touch did not hurt. What was a mere kiss in the grand scheme of things?

It was confounding; she had gone from the bane of his existence to the reason for breathing. A transformation he had not predicted. Denying her anything, in the long run, was just not an option. Denying her this outlet was not an option – in a way he needed it as much as she.

In hindsight, it had begun with eye contact. Many, many years back. It had barely burned back then, embers fanned every now and then, smoldering in the dark, out of sight. A still blaze otherwise silent till one day he realized it had turned into wild fire, roaring and almost too bright to look at.

There was an underlying reason behind even this madness.


	3. three

**/three/**

It was the taste of madness, delicious in its takeover, wonderful in the overthrow of body and mind. The tremble that ran through her skin, under her skin – unlike any other tremble. Rapturous in the way it stung inside of her, in the way it took over.

Shaky breaths that tickled her skin, steady hands that kept her firmly in place, lips that soothed even when he bit into the skin on her neck; it was threatening to engulf her. Crushed into the wall by his body, crushed when she tightened her legs around him and insisted he come closer. Insisted he left nothing between them but the static of skin against skin, cloth against cloth.

An inferno enforced upon her, scorching and sweltering, burning away images of near-death. She could sink into this world, she thought; descend into the sensation of only his warm, large hands, his pelvis grinded into hers and his lips consistently on hers. Connection in a primal, uncomplicated rhythm. A pulse of touch, his fingers unfalteringly pressed into her skin and his heavy breaths holding her together. If not for this connection she would fall apart at the seams, collapse and break into too many pieces. This kept her together, cohesive in its superiority. It overtook her, pulled her into another state of awareness where there was nothing to do but surrender to the flow, follow the current and letting yourself go.

She wanted to burn him back, wanted to slip her touch underneath his skin and fascia, into his muscles and attach herself to him in a fixed bond. She wanted to dig her fingers into skin until they broke through the barrier of dermis, she wanted to bite into the point where his neck became shoulder, let her teeth break into flesh till he growled in her ear and pushed back harder in reciprocation.

Why had they never gone in this direction before? It was a glorious connection and it baffled her that it was but a first. What had held her back, what hindrance had her mind concocted to make sure they stayed on separate lines and never strayed too far into this borderland? Rules and conduct, they were but imaginary in this moment, puzzling to think it was such arbitrary convictions that had insisted on a fence between them.

It was like assembly of a puzzle, putting back squares that fit together, trying to figure out the larger picture. It was no wonder maybe, after a bit of contemplation, that she had refrained from being impulsive when it came to him. He was after all a rogue entity, a stray planetary rock on collision course with her the moment he came too close. It was a law of conservation; you shielded yourself against the outside things you knew would end up hurting you in the end. She had, on some level, recognized a snip of his ability to hurt her, to tumble her world.

Her mind flickered and fluttered, images of the man holding the gun in between a brief kiss shared months ago. Flickered between fragments of bile in her mouth and a thrill in her stomach, a sour taste and a tingle, mixing and interweaving till she thought she would surely succumb to some form of insanity. Certain that she would soon combust into a pile of ash, burst into flame and become engulfed completely. However much this was a major leap, a tangent gone off track from a beaten path, it was with a bit of reflection maybe merely the natural progression. It had been going in this direction, however slowly. At one point they would have reached this crossroad, eventually. Today had only accelerated events.

He grunted into her hair, breath warm and slick, his clothed chest feeling almost too humid against her, the cool tiles behind her absorbing heat. He grunted again, rocking into her and she answered with her own hum.

Again, his touch instilled a jolt in her, pushed her to consider only the contact between them as he grounded into her, to rely on only this and sweep away everything else that was of no consequence in this moment. His lips engaging hers, wild and impatient, pliant and yet she felt overcome. God, she just needed to let go, to leap – to disappear altogether in that moment when it crashed completely and utterly into you. Hard impact – that was what she needed. She kissed him back, eager to hurry this along, eager to compress herself into him.

He was overwhelming and forceful, a wonderful rhythm that kept her on an upsurge – lips calm against her neck, tracing along her jaw, tender in their kisses – whispering little incoherent words of comfort in her ear. She wondered if he was aware of the implication of it all, the soft noises albeit disjointed told her all she needed, more telling than actual words.

It was a contradiction; soft and gentle – hard and rough. Compact structure that moved against her, slid into her with just the right amount of pressure she sought. Held together by invisible threads; she wondered if it was thin and fragile behind the force of it. Would it disintegrate and vaporize the moment they stopped? Was it only a feeble solution, one that would break the moment they fully crashed?

He bit into the skin behind her ear and she forgot everything; forgot to breathe when he slid into her again, another angle and a different rhythm.

She sighed, whimpered, moaned but otherwise kept quiet, words would only hinder. Noises however – small little vibrations of different tones, dissolved in their meaning – evaporated into her skin with a certainty she sought.

He was warm and sweaty; a furnace that kept her against the cold wall behind her – a wonderful contradictive feeling that kept her free of any thoughts but the feeling of nearing climax within her. The roaring feeling that accumulated till you thought you could not endure another upwards surge, the surprise when it continued its steep climb.

It was too painful, almost devastating in its excruciating flavor.

It was comforting in among the pain. It was a throb she found herself surrendering to, without much thought or hesitation. The natural progression of the entanglement of bodies. Even now she was uncertain as to whether he understood it, would he be able to comprehend the nature of it? Would he believe her if she told him the truth? If she let slip a little whispered confession.

His embrace felt so achingly familiar to her. Why else would she seek it if not for the familiar warmth? Why, if not for comfort? Why, if not for the strange howl inside of her that insisted she loved him in some fashion.

It would hurt even more, she was sure, if she chose to let words slide past her lips. Instead she mouthed kisses of endearment along the corners of his mouth, tried to hang onto the animate look in the depths of his eye, tried to push aside panic within her. Vehemently tried to stay in the moment.

She felt him grunt into her mouth when he came, just seconds behind her own climax.

In a short breath he stopped, she stopped. The world seemed to stop spinning, her heart came to a likewise abrupt stop; it all stopped and left only behind an absence that was loud in its silence.

In a short breath everything fell apart in the fragment of a second, cracked and splintered. It evaporated into invisible air, rapidly eluded her grasp and left her fumbling in the dark, fumbling for the inexplicable feeling she had been under. The beguile of touch, the riveting trance she had been under, was gone.

Abrupt and sudden, her legs firmly situated on the floor again, his eyes obscure and two dark objects that left nothing for her to differentiate between. A grimace on his face, pain vivid. The sticky feel of fluid on her inner thighs, heat quickly fading from her flushed skin. The feeling of incompletion, of being fractured.

An aftermath that left her with the same elements that had horrified her in the beginning, an almost similar dreadful feeling. Her chest felt tight. It was a rush again but without any comfort in it.

A big gaping wound, bleeding out and leaving room for fear to well up in her again.

**/ **

"I'm sorry," he breathed, teeth clenched as he tried to concentrate, tried to assemble a form of reason within him instead of the feeling of separation, his mind once again a gaping void, once again a separated entity from her.

Her breath was perturbed; hit him in a humid air, a slight breeze that did not seem to relay any form of understanding or connection. His hands lost on her skin in a strange grip, tight around her waist under her skirt. His eyes fixated on her face, trying to interpret her obscure eyes.

The ache in his bruised hand more pronounced now, no longer hidden by the flow of other sensations. A sharp pain, a jab that shot through him in oscillations when he breathed, when he moved his hand. Pain that ran along in the guise of tremors from his knuckles to his elbow, to his shoulder and neck, an ache behind his eyes.

Her hair had fallen in front of her face, head tilted to look down, to avoid his gaze. A little mechanical gesture when she tried to push her skirt down again, inadvertently bumping his hand into the wall.

He hissed, unable to contain the little voice of pain.

Instantly she looked up, "You alright?"

He nodded and tried to pull his hand back, she snatched it, her hands soft around his wrist as she looked at the new, almost faint bruises. They would be dark tomorrow but for now they were weak, under development as the ruptured blood cells disintegrated, leaving color behind.

Her thumb gently ran across his knuckles, feather light, her eyes trained on his hand.

It was no use to tell her how it had happened; it was rather self-explanatory in his mind. Anger and fear slipped out in exertion, slipped through body and skin, through bones and tendons till it was released in physical form. Intangible fear transformed into corporeal manifestation the moment he forced his hand into the hard concrete of a convenient wall.

"It's swollen," she commented, "you should have cooled it down with some ice. It's only going to get worse."

"I was preoccupied," he bit out.

It had been stark frenzy and raw terror that had kept him from thinking about his hand, solely concentrated on getting from the squadroom to the parking garage, to a car and to the loft where she had been held. It had yet to integrate itself into his brain that it had been a kidnapping first, turned hostage situation, turned nightmare. He did not really understand how it had escalated to this point, to this terror. It had been a normal day, like any other. A gruesome case like any other, and yet it had been irrevocably different from any other day.

Again, he was stuck with the image of the dark loft, the grey concrete floor and that gun against her face, her eyes numb when she had caught his look. Nausea overwhelmed him again, flooded him till he could taste nothing but bile. It was the vivid imagery of the gun and her bruised face, the thing that caused him to be caught in this endless trap of wanting to retch.

"Shit," he croaked, more to himself than to her, his hand still nestled between her two hands, a gentle touch.

Exhausted and dizzy, he was spent – spine aching and his legs shaking with effort even now, his jeans in a pool around his legs, only now reminding him that he was precariously close to stumbling. His own breath out of sync, short ventilation followed by deeper inhalations. Erratic and out of proportional rhythm, hers mixing with his in the same faltering, troubled cascade.

Her eyes strayed to his, her hold on his hand still tender. It was a look that bore more confusion than anything else. He felt inclined to agree with her, confusion was the more discernible feeling among the myriad of other emotions in his mind as well.

She let go when he stumbled a bit away, his hands quickly pulling up his underwear and his jeans, quickly buttoning his jeans and buckling his belt again, smoothing down his shirt even if it had a decidedly crinkled look. He could change when he got home, a warm shower and he was certain he would fall into his bed with exhaustion. He massaged his neck, hand somewhat calming against his own skin. Maybe he could massage away this excess of horror that lingered inside his skull.

She drew her skirt further back down, righting it, smoothing out the creases in it.

"It's alright," she advanced again but whereas her touch had been sure before it was hesitant now. A thumb along his cheek before she withdrew, the touch almost innocent in comparison to everything else.

There was an almost mechanical fashion about the way her joints worked, about the motion of her hands, the way her eyes met his.

It was hard to distinguish what went on beyond her gaze, what went on in her thoughts.

"Does it hurt much?" her eyes were on his hand again and yet the question felt like a broader question, one that he felt inclined to answer with a resonating 'yes'. His life hurt, his essence hurt – his mind was in uproar with pain. His bruised hand was an mere echo in comparison to the rest of him.

Instead he shrugged, "Nah."

Her eyes went to his face, narrowed before they quickly reverted.

"I feel like shit," she whispered.

He brushed away a stand of her hair, putting it behind her ear, "Don't think," his voice sounded too gruff, "Just let it go. What's done is done, okay. No need to mull over it now, it won't do any good."

Her smile was faint, "Too late."

He sighed.

Her hands came to his jaw, another brief touch before she went to the sink. He watched her splatter water on to her face, watched her grip towels out of the dispenser and clean her face. Another mechanical gesture, another façade that exuded far more detachment that he liked.

He sighed again.

Her eyes caught his in the mirror, "Are you sure you're alright?"

His eyes narrowed at her monotonous voice. "What about you?" he countered.

Her eyes flittered away, water splashing unto her neck now.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled.

He caught her gaze again, briefly, a wide-eyed look.

He took another step forward, came to stand next to her, shoulder inches apart. Looking at her through the mirror. They were inches apart from touching and yet it felt like they were miles adrift; so close and yet so distant. He caught her gaze in the mirror.

"You don't need to apologize," he told her.

She looked down in answer, turning the faucet off, throwing the towels into a trashcan, hair once again falling into a curtain in front of her, red tresses obscuring her eyes.

He wanted to call her sweetheart; he wanted to cradle her till she fell asleep; he wanted to bestow some form of love on her. It was a problem when it came to her; he wanted a multitude of things. He wanted to be welcomed into every facet of her life, every little nook and crook of her heart. He wanted so much and yet he knew it would be too much, she would shy away from him.

Instead he tried to regulate his breathing, tried to compile his thoughts into some form of coherency.

In a little while they would fall into order again. They would further right their clothes, smooth down hair and try to look presentable. Her eyes would be doused in a blank hue; he would try to imitate the same impenetrable shade. They could pretend it was a black hole, wiped out of existence. They could pretend it had been a glitch, an anomaly in their universe.

They would fall into the soothing rhythm of order and rules. It was always what compelled them in the end.

Inevitably, they would end up in this moment again. It would be in a different point in time, in a different setting – with a different concoction of emotional upheaval. It did not matter, in the long run.

In the last remnant of chaos however, he quickly slipped his lips along her cheek, let them linger for a second, trying to bestow something into the small kiss to let her know everything would be alright, in the end.

Her small hand enveloped his, and it was a novel thing he could not decipher. There was something tentative about her hold, something he had not encountered before.

It was a strange concept but in the end everything led to her small hand in his.

**/**

Finite.


End file.
